Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 81279 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81279 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
“Is that a gun, son? How about you hand that over first?” he says as his partner, a blonde woman with red blemishes on both cheeks, eyes me suspiciously.
I nod and put on the safety, carefully handing over the weapon as it strikes me that they could have treated me as the threat and dealt with it accordingly. But they’re both small town cops, they know me from Chuck’s shop, and they just watch the tears streaming down my face.
“A man… in a mask…” I try to explain with my feet freezing to the ground.
The female cop frowns. “I remember you came to the station to report an intruder last year. Is this… a similar situation?” she asks before glancing at the windows in the upper floor of my apartment building.
I hide my face in my hands as the cold invades my attention at last. “No, back then I… maybe I just thought I saw something. But tonight, there was a man in my apartment. He knew my name! I shot at him, but didn’t get him.”
The policeman flashes a light at me. “Have you been drinking? Drugs?”
“No! This is real. He broke in through my window! Please go see for yourself.” I know it’s pathetic of me to be this distraught, but being accosted in my safe place makes the terror of the night when I lost my whole family creep right back into my heart.
The woman leans toward her partner, but I can still hear her whisper. “He’s had mental issues.”
I sob as a black hole opens in my chest.
“Rowan, is it?” she says to me, gesturing at the back seat of the cop car. “Officer Huber will go to your apartment, just give him the keys. In the meanwhile, how about you wait here with me? I see you didn’t have time to put on shoes.”
What she really means is that she can see I’m crazy, but I appreciate her concern anyway. It’s more kindness than I could hope for.
I hand over my keys, sit down, and the policewoman even hands me a blanket as I break down, ashamed of the people gathered in the street to watch me, but grateful that I’m still alive.
And yet even here, I don’t feel safe. There’s a chill crawling under my skin as the unexplainable sense of being watched refuses to go away.
Chapter 4
Rowan
The week following the home invasion was like a return to hell.
I might not have ended up in the hospital this time, but the terror of the invasion tainted every breath I took, and whatever progress I made in therapy was now gone. I could barely get any sleep at night, woken up by each and every noise in the old apartment building, and while I ended up attaching new, firm locks to each window, nothing could help the sense of paranoia telling me that the guy who broke into my house—as the police ended up confirming—is still watching me and waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
Who was he?
Why did he come?
How did he know my name?
On one hand, I want to know, but on the other, I wish to never find out and put it all behind me. I can hear his muffled voice in my nightmares, and for once, I’m actually happy to leave my house and go to work, because being around people feels safer.
I grab my cane on the way out, and as I close all four of my door locks, I realize there’s some commotion in the corridor. Two men are carrying a small sofa into the open door opposite mine, and I have to lean against the wall to let them pass.
I’m about to take a peek inside when Mrs. Treville waves at me. Bits of snow are scattered around her boots, so she must have just come in.
“How are you feeling?” she asks as I approach her on the way to the elevator. It isn’t the first time she’s asking me this, and I can’t help but feel self-conscious. Normally, it’s me who’s concerned for her, because she’s broken bones twice since I moved into this building, but when I see her warm smile, I know the concern is genuine and not meant to point out how weak I am.
“Much better, thank you. It’s a walking stick kind of day though.” I tap the floor with the cane I both hate and appreciate. It helps with my mobility, and yet makes me stand out more in ways I would rather not.
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, Rowan. Are you using those hot patches I told you about?”
I smile and I try not to think too much about how much she reminds me of my grandmother, a sweet woman who baked cookies with me at Christmas, and taught me how to swim. She deserved to live many more years than she got.